of Tunbridge Wells’s moneyed “village” area.
Amy Stevenson was not a virgin. Apparently she’d willingly had sex in the run up to her attack and it must have been protected sex. According to the clippings, there was no forensic evidence, no semen. That word only used in biology class and sex crime reporting. He—they—must have used a condom, but that would have been long lost or long hidden.
Police had been satisfied that Amy and her boyfriend hadn’t slept together. So it looked like Amy had been unfaithful to him.
Poor kid,
thought Alex. Did he know one of her last decisions was to betray him? Would he have known that her “rape” wasn’t rape? Or perhaps he did find out, and was so angry that he attacked her? It seemed far-fetched, but it was foolish to discount anything.
It had become a standard phrase in the later newspaper clippings, “the rape and attempted murder of Amy Stevenson.” But that wasn’t the real story. The police couldn’t have known that when they brought Bob in, could they?
Alex shook her head, it was a far knottier story than she’d thought. The best article she could produce would be found in the kinks left behind from unpicking those dusty knots. She wished she could skip to the end and find out what those kinks looked like.
As she pulled up outside her brick terrace, heaved her bag out of its seat and walked along the path, Alex checked the time, 11:22 a.m. The deadline for her piece on Dr. Haynes loomed in a few days and she had thirty-eight minutes of work time left today.
—
Getting to sleep wasn’t a problem for Alex. Her eyes tended to shut as the final sip tingled her lips. It was often a battle of will over fatigue just to get the glass of water down her neck before passing out in a deep, throaty sleep.
It was staying asleep that was hard.
Since Matt had left, the witching hours were wakeful. As the tide of alcohol washed away, a heightened sense of self-preservation kicked in. Every night brought different creaks and groans to the little house, a variety of imagined terrors creeping in the shadows.
Alex’s night nerves were almost as irrational as her childhood fear of ghosts. It was always possible that someone could break in. If they did, it was possible they’d get up to something really sadistic, rather than look for easily pocketed, high-value goods. But it was incredibly unlikely.
By day, Alex recognized her paranoia for what it was. By night, she often spent the darkest hours rigid and dripping with sweat.
After a late supper of toast dipped into a half-eaten tub of hummus, she’d fallen into a hot, dreamless sleep at around 10 p.m., chickpea residue on her hands.
At 1:37 a.m., Alex burst into total wakefulness, on high alert, convinced that someone was in the house.
Downstairs, the polished floorboards creaked in rhythm with the wind and the trees tapped warnings on the windows.
She heard slow, deliberate movements around her living room. She heard the first three steps of the staircase sigh underfoot, then nothing. Alex remained paralyzed, making no moves to investigate or protect herself. She just lay prone, peeping from under the covers, coated in thick sweat.
A few more noises dotted the house. A little way up the street a car door slammed, and a cat shrieked as gears crunched and tires drove away.
Two hours passed, with Alex dry-eyed and sweating. Finally, having braved a trip to the bathroom and finding no harm on the journey, she was able to fall back into a just-below-the-surface slumber.
—
The morning found Alex red-eyed and agitated. Since her mid-twenties, she’d lost the ability to lie-in and felt a strong pull to the thick black coffee her kitchen offered.
Her bed was dry, but the bedding still smelt bittersweet. Out of habit, Alex stripped it all off and padded downstairs. As she set the coffee machine off with a sigh, something caught her eye.
Her Moleskine notepad was closed. She was sure she’d left it open on the
Amy Stevenson was not a virgin. Apparently she’d willingly had sex in the run up to her attack and it must have been protected sex. According to the clippings, there was no forensic evidence, no semen. That word only used in biology class and sex crime reporting. He—they—must have used a condom, but that would have been long lost or long hidden.
Police had been satisfied that Amy and her boyfriend hadn’t slept together. So it looked like Amy had been unfaithful to him.
Poor kid,
thought Alex. Did he know one of her last decisions was to betray him? Would he have known that her “rape” wasn’t rape? Or perhaps he did find out, and was so angry that he attacked her? It seemed far-fetched, but it was foolish to discount anything.
It had become a standard phrase in the later newspaper clippings, “the rape and attempted murder of Amy Stevenson.” But that wasn’t the real story. The police couldn’t have known that when they brought Bob in, could they?
Alex shook her head, it was a far knottier story than she’d thought. The best article she could produce would be found in the kinks left behind from unpicking those dusty knots. She wished she could skip to the end and find out what those kinks looked like.
As she pulled up outside her brick terrace, heaved her bag out of its seat and walked along the path, Alex checked the time, 11:22 a.m. The deadline for her piece on Dr. Haynes loomed in a few days and she had thirty-eight minutes of work time left today.
—
Getting to sleep wasn’t a problem for Alex. Her eyes tended to shut as the final sip tingled her lips. It was often a battle of will over fatigue just to get the glass of water down her neck before passing out in a deep, throaty sleep.
It was staying asleep that was hard.
Since Matt had left, the witching hours were wakeful. As the tide of alcohol washed away, a heightened sense of self-preservation kicked in. Every night brought different creaks and groans to the little house, a variety of imagined terrors creeping in the shadows.
Alex’s night nerves were almost as irrational as her childhood fear of ghosts. It was always possible that someone could break in. If they did, it was possible they’d get up to something really sadistic, rather than look for easily pocketed, high-value goods. But it was incredibly unlikely.
By day, Alex recognized her paranoia for what it was. By night, she often spent the darkest hours rigid and dripping with sweat.
After a late supper of toast dipped into a half-eaten tub of hummus, she’d fallen into a hot, dreamless sleep at around 10 p.m., chickpea residue on her hands.
At 1:37 a.m., Alex burst into total wakefulness, on high alert, convinced that someone was in the house.
Downstairs, the polished floorboards creaked in rhythm with the wind and the trees tapped warnings on the windows.
She heard slow, deliberate movements around her living room. She heard the first three steps of the staircase sigh underfoot, then nothing. Alex remained paralyzed, making no moves to investigate or protect herself. She just lay prone, peeping from under the covers, coated in thick sweat.
A few more noises dotted the house. A little way up the street a car door slammed, and a cat shrieked as gears crunched and tires drove away.
Two hours passed, with Alex dry-eyed and sweating. Finally, having braved a trip to the bathroom and finding no harm on the journey, she was able to fall back into a just-below-the-surface slumber.
—
The morning found Alex red-eyed and agitated. Since her mid-twenties, she’d lost the ability to lie-in and felt a strong pull to the thick black coffee her kitchen offered.
Her bed was dry, but the bedding still smelt bittersweet. Out of habit, Alex stripped it all off and padded downstairs. As she set the coffee machine off with a sigh, something caught her eye.
Her Moleskine notepad was closed. She was sure she’d left it open on the
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